


My echo is the only voice coming back

by xTheHarlequinDevilx



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xTheHarlequinDevilx/pseuds/xTheHarlequinDevilx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is feeling lonely amongst all these happy couples</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The waves of loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever uploaded to go easy on me :3 I don't know if I'm going to keep writing on it either, it really just depends on what you guys think about it.
> 
> Oh, and spoiler alert for those of you who haven't seen The Notebook!

He couldn't help it. The feeling of loneliness was too strong and he was tired of fighting it. Looking around the Musain he could see his friends happily talking and laughing. He was glad that they were all so happy, that none of them had to have this feeling hanging over them. Of course, they all had someone to keep the loneliness at bay. Courfeyrac had Jehan, Feuilly had Bahorel, Joly had both Bossuet and Musichetta. Even Grantaire had managed to win Enjolras over. Combeferre on the other hand had no one.

 

He used to like Eponine quite a lot. They even went on a date once, but it was so obvious that she was still hung up on Marius so he didn't ask her out again.

 

Usually these things didn't get to him, he just tried to focus on school and other things that seemed more important. But tonight, wherever he looked he saw a lovey dovey couple and it just felt like a punch in the face.

 

He knew that he could talk to anyone of his friends about this and they would all be understanding. But what good would that do? At the end of the day they all had someone so crawl into bed with, while he had to go home to his one room apartment and go to sleep alone.

 

After the meeting was over he didn't stay long. Usually he stayed until the wee hours in the morning like everyone else, but he just couldn't muster up the strength to do it tonight. So he just said goodnight to Enjolras, who barely had time to acknowledge him before his lap got occupied by Grantaire. The fact that no one else noticed him slip out stung a bit, but he tried to just shake it off.

 

He didn't live too far away from the café but it was far enough so that his thoughts could get out of hand. He wondered if anyone had noticed that he'd gone home yet, if they would even notice if he didn't show up at tomorrow's meeting. What did he really contribute to the group anyway? Sure, he was rather popular amongst his friends when they needed advice, but it wasn't a crucial role. They could just as well ask Courfeyrac or Enjolras. They didn't really need him for anything.

 

When he got home he collapsed on the couch and turned on the TV. The Notebook was on and he groaned before changing the channel. Valentine's Day was showing on the next. A new episode of Hart of Dixie on the one after that. He couldn't seem to escape this happy loving feeling that everyone but him seemed to be feeling. He threw the remote on the couch and got up to get a drink. It wasn't really like him to drink alone, he barely even drank when he was at the Musain. But tonight he needed the distraction. Something to take his mind off of things. He was happily surprised when he found a barely touched bottle of vodka in the kitchen. He couldn't recall buying it himself so he figured one of his friends must've left it there at some point.

 

As the night went on the bottle got lighter and Combeferre had ended up watching The Notebook. It had seemed like a good idea in the haze. But now the subtitles were rolling and he was sobbing violently. It wasn't because of the way Noah and Allie had passionately loved each other or even because of the sweet moment when they had died together. It was because of the fear that he would never find someone who would feel that way about him, the fear that he would die alone and no one would even notice that he was gone.

 

He hated himself for feeling this way. He used to be the sensible one. The one who didn't need love or another person to function. But now it seemed like he was falling apart at the seams.

 

Before he knew it he found himself staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were red from both crying and the amount of alcohol he'd been drinking. When he finally managed to tear his gaze away he looked down and saw he was holding a razor blade. He had no memory of picking it up, but everything was blurry and unclear at the moment. Except for one thing which was completely clear to him. He was alone. No one was here to stop him from doing what he was about to do.

 

Still there must've been some hope left at the back of his mind because when he brought the blade to his wrist he didn't cut very deep. He repeated the motion five or six times, still not deep enough to do any actual harm. Then he resorted to watching the blood drip down into the sink.

 

-

 

When he woke up on the couch the next morning. His head was throbbing and when he saw the empty vodka bottle on the living room table he realized why. The next thing he felt was the sting in his left arm. Looking down he saw the cuts he had a clear memory of doing the night before, and the feeling of loneliness came rushing back. What he then realized was that the cuts had left a rather noticeable blood stain on one of the couch cushions.

 

He tried to sit up slowly so the world around him wouldn't start spinning too much, then he flipped the cushion over so no one would ask about the stain. Then he made his way to the shower and later picked out a shirt with long sleeves that would cover the cuts. Though he doubted that anyone would notice any way. Another wave of self hatred hit him at that last thought. When had he turned into this self-pitying mess?

 


	2. Could this be a turning point?

The day went on as usual, though he was constantly reminded of the cuts on his arm through the stinging pain that came every time his sleeve graced his skin. This only caused him to be quieter than usual, lost in his own thoughts. As he suspected not a single one of his friends seemed to notice his change in behavior. He told himself not to flatter himself, why would anyone notice anyway? As he already had established, he wasn't a crucial member of the group, not someone who got a lot of attention.

 

There it was again, the self-pity that made him hate himself even more. No wonder he was still alone when not even he could stand himself.

 

He arrived early at the Musain that night. No one else had shown up yet so he just went to sit at the table in the corner. After a while people started showing up and everyone seemed to come in pairs. Combeferre mentally kicked himself for getting hung up on the small detail that no one except him showed up alone.

 

After the meeting he left immediately without telling anyone. On his way home he picked up a new bottle of vodka, looking forward to the haze the alcohol would bring him. Before he knew it he was standing in front of his bathroom mirror once again, bringing a razor blade to his arm.

 

In a few weeks this had become a daily routine of his. Though he could barely feel the cuts anymore. What brought him more pain was the fact that nobody had noticed that he barely said a word during the meetings anymore. That he never stayed to hang out afterwards, or even the fact that he always seemed to have a glass in his hand when he was at the Musain.

 

What finally made him lose it was what happened at a meeting one night. It was somewhat normal for everyone else to have a limited concentration, but Enjolras was _always_ focused. It's something Combeferre found comfort in, because when he got too sick of looking at all these couples around him he could always turn to Enjolras for a normal conversation. But tonight he was just as bad as everyone else. During the meeting, if you could even call it that, he was more focused on Grantaire than the reason they were all there. And when Combeferre tried to talk to him about a new idea to help their cause he couldn't even get his attention.

 

The guide tried not to let it get the better of him so he decided to go over to the bar to get another drink. On the way he ran into Courfeyrac.

“Dude, how are you?” the centre asked.

Surprised Combeferre looked up at him. He'd been waiting for so long for someone to ask him that, to notice that he was in fact not okay. He was just about to answer when he realized Courfeyrac's gaze was focused on a certain poet that was sitting a few tables behind him.

“Listen, mine and Jehan's six month anniversary is this weekend and well, I have no idea what to get him... You have any suggestions? ...Combeferre?”

Combeferre just stared at him in disbelief. That's it, he couldn't stand this anymore.

“For fuck's sake!” He yelled and harshly slammed the glass he'd been holding down on a nearby table. This made everyone pause what they were doing and look up. Combeferre just turned around and headed for the door.

“Are you okay, man?” Bahorel asked him, gripping his arm. The guide just shoved him away and left the café.

 

That night he didn't need another drink to convince himself that he wanted the relief that only a razor blade could give him. He didn't need to be in the haze he had gotten so accustomed to. So when he got home he went straight to the bathroom to get the razor blades and he paused momentarily when he saw the bottle of sleeping pills he'd gotten last year when he had trouble sleeping. It would be so easy to end it all. To just fall asleep on the couch and never wake up.

 

He shook his head to get rid of the idea. It seemed a little drastic after all. So he settled for the razor blade, but for some reason he could bring himself to cut. How had he become this person? He never used to yell at his friends. And the fact that he had just considered suicide scared him more than anything. That night he ended up going to bed without cutting for the first time in weeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who actually read the first chapter! It's more than I was expecting!


End file.
